Into the Wilderness (74 page)

* * *

Nathaniel
was propped against the wall of the shelter on a bed of blankets and balsam
branches. She had tried stretching him out, but his breathing was least labored
when he sat upright. Now he opened his eyes and looked at her steadily. His
color was very bad, but she smiled at him, and brushed his hair away from his
face.

"I
suppose I will never live this down," she whispered.

He
caught her hand and squeezed it tight. On the other side of the fire, Richard
was awake and listening, but there was nothing she could do about that.
 

"Listen,
Nathaniel," she said, leaning toward him. "I've filled the big kettle
and the bucket with water, you can reach them, right here. Are you
listening?" When she had his attention, she pointed it all out. The dried
meat and beans, the ammunition and his rifle and knife. Richard's weapons as
well, all within Nathaniel's reach and out of Richard's, at least until he was
well enough to move. There were enough provisions to hold them both for three
days; four, perhaps.

She
dared not look at him, and so she glanced up at the roof and the hole he had
torn in it on that evening they first came across Joe. Could it have been less
than two days? "I've brought in Joe's woodpile, all of it. Richard will
have to manage the fire, but I expect he'll be able to. You must stay
warm."

Nathaniel
squeezed her hand again. "Elizabeth."

She
turned her face to him.

"It
was an accident," he said. "Don't tear yourself up so."

She
shook her head, hard. "There's perhaps five hours or so of light today to
walk by. I could be to Robbie's by the day after tomorrow, in the
morning."

"Take
the compass," he said, and began to cough. He crossed his arms over his
chest and the pain shook him. Elizabeth waited until it had passed.

"I've
got the compass, and food enough," she said. "And I remember the way,
I'm sure I do."

The
muscles in his throat worked as he swallowed. "It's faster," he said,
"if you skirt the swamp."

Elizabeth
hesitated, and then set her face in what she hoped were calm lines.

"Yes,
all right. The swamp at the outflow of Little Bear?" Between them, they
worked through the route until she could recite it to his satisfaction.

Nathaniel
squeezed her hand. "The musket," he said. "Load it with shot.
Keep it primed."

Elizabeth
shuddered at the thought of ever firing another gun, but she nodded.

"Watch—"
He coughed, his face contorting. "Overhead."
For panthers in the trees,
she thought. The skin across her
shoulders rose in goose bumps.

On
the other side of the fire, there was a shifting. Elizabeth did her best to
ignore Richard, but she could see Nathaniel's attention focusing on him. She
put her hand on his cheek and turned his face back to her own.

"Richard
says the bullet seems to have done minimal damage," she told him. "If
you stay still, and warm, and fed, the wound will close itself and you will
heal. If you don't—"

His
half grin closed like a fist around her heart. "Boots. I'm not that easy
to get rid of."

She
leaned toward him. There was the taste of blood on his mouth, bright and
coppery. "As if I'd let you get away," she said, her voice trembling.

Elizabeth
sat with him while he drifted off, holding his hand. For the first time since
she'd known him, his fingers were colder than her own.

She
studied him, the joint of the thumb, the scars, the hard places on his palm,
the short, blunt nails that he was constantly cleaning with his knife.
Elizabeth wet the corner of her kerchief in the water kettle and wiped
Nathaniel's hands clean of the dirt of Joe's grave, and of his own blood. Then
she stood, and walked over to Richard. He looked up at her, his face impassive.

"I'm
going for help," she said quietly. "But I want you to know something
before I go." Elizabeth crouched down to bring her face closer to
Richard's. She could see that he was in considerable pain, but that he was
never going to admit it. For a moment she wondered at him, what a complex man
he was. Then she thought of Nathaniel alone with him, and at his mercy. She
said: "I've shot one man I didn't mean to. It won't be hard to shoot the
next one, if I've got good cause."

"Promise
me you'll answer the summons to appear before the court, and I promise you I won't
lift a hand to hurt him."

"Or
to help him, either." She almost laughed. "Your word is less than
worthless, Dr. Todd. I will make you a promise. If you hurt him, then a court
of law would be the best you could hope for. I doubt Hawkeye would be so kind.
I know that I would not."

He
was watching her closely. "You're not as tough as you think."

"For
your own sake, you had best hope that you are wrong." She began to turn
away.

"Wait."

Richard
shifted on his pallet, grimacing. The wrappings on his hand were bloody.
"I swear on my mother's grave that I'll do what I can to keep him alive
until you get back. If you promise to meet me in a court of law and answer the
charges against you."

"I
am starting to wonder if you are completely sane," Elizabeth said quietly.
His face was haggard, every crease caked with dirt. There was no sign of the
elegant Dr. Todd who had proposed to her in such formal terms in the Bennetts'
parlor, the man who painted landscapes and wore velvet waistcoats. And yet,
somehow she had the sense that while much of the paint and glitter had been
scraped away, the real Richard Todd was still not completely in evidence.

"Do
we have an agreement?"

Nathaniel
coughed in his uneasy sleep.

"On
your mother's grave?"

He
nodded, and Elizabeth inhaled. "Then I agree. But only if my husband
survives, is that clear? If I find him in good condition on my return, then I
will answer your charges in court."

Richard's
smile was a frightening thing.

Elizabeth
turned away and made herself ready. With the musket and knife tucked into her
belt and the powder horn slung over her shoulder, she lifted the pack of
provisions to her back, and glanced at Nathaniel. Without another look at
Richard Todd, she set off, the red dog trotting beside her.

The
red dog woke her at sunrise by pushing its cold nose into her neck. Elizabeth
gasped and rolled over and then, suddenly remembering where she was and why,
she sat up. There was a muffled woof and a single, appreciative thump of a
tail.

"Wretched
beast," she muttered, rubbing the heel of her hand on its bony skull. The
fire had gone out, insufficiently banked. It was the animal's warmth that had
kept her from waking in a shiver. She wondered if fleas would be worth the
comfort. "I don't suppose you can fetch wood, can you?" Never mind.
No time anyway.

How
long had she slept? She had made a hasty camp at twilight and fallen
immediately to sleep. Eight hours, perhaps; it felt like less. Elizabeth ate a
breakfast of raw oats and dried meat, staring into the bush as she chewed. A
long day of walking ahead of her. She forced herself to swallow and took
another mouthful. The dog watched her, one brow cocked. Then she snuffled and
rolled onto her back, waving her bent paws slightly and casting Elizabeth a
hopeful look.

"You
don't really think I'm going to stick my hand into that mess, do you?"
Elizabeth asked, even as she leaned forward to scratch the dog's freckled
belly. She was surprised to see that the teats were elongated; a bitch, with a
few litters in her past. Elizabeth thought of uncle Merriweather, how much
boyish enthusiasm he had shown when one of his retrievers had whelped. It was
the only time he had ever gone into the kitchen, to visit the litter in its
nest of wood shavings by the hearth. And how cook had hated having him there,
disrupting her routine and staff.

"Treenie,"
Elizabeth said, thinking for the first time in many months of the cook at
Oakmere, a wiry twist of a Scotswoman with a face like an overripe tomato, a
carving knife for a tongue, and fists like raw joints of beef.

The
dog rolled to her feet and stood wagging her tail.

"It's
as good a name as any," Elizabeth said. "I must call you something if
you're going to come along."

They
walked. For hours, they walked and Elizabeth talked to the red dog; it was the
only way to keep her mind focused on the journey and off the cause of her
errand. She was pushing hard, stopping only to drink at the river and relieve
herself. Both of them ate on the go. Treenie disappeared on occasion, foraging
ahead and loping back, almost puppy like with the remnants of a rabbit or
groundhog on her muzzle. Red squirrels chattered and scolded above them, and
there was the persistent drone of a woodpecker no matter how far they went.

The
river meandered, but Elizabeth resisted the urge to make even the most obvious
of shortcuts. With considerable luck, she might survive being lost in these
endless woods, but Nathaniel would not. She walked harder, chewing tough chunks
of dried rabbit and tossing Treenie the gristle. They were following a moose
trail, fairly well marked; Elizabeth pulled up short in surprise to find a
series of nests in the gentle hollows. Apparently turkeys had found the spot to
their liking in spite of the traffic: each nest of twigs and dead leaves
contained a large clutch of pale yellow eggs speckled brown. The hens were just
out of sight in the underbrush, fussing furiously. Not hungry enough to rob
nests, Elizabeth walked on without pausing. Treenie, not quite so fastidious in
her appetites, hung back; a sharp word brought her to attention, and she
slouched reluctantly past the easy meal.

By
midday the air was growing heavier and hotter. Sweat trickled down her back and
sides and glued her hair to her temples. When a swarm of black fly rose like a
malignant cloud, Elizabeth thought with longing of the pennyroyal ointment and
the bear grease, but she had left them behind for Nathaniel, as she had left
almost all the provisions. She tied her kerchief around her nose and mouth and
wiped the tiny black creatures from the corners of her eyes every few steps.
Treenie's eyes and nose were circled with a trembling black mask; again and
again she resorted to plunging into the river to find relief.

Eventually
the river fed into a small, misshapen lake. Most of these lakes had no name,
and in fact Elizabeth thought this one deserved none; it was too unpleasant a
place. To her right was a vast tangle of dreary tamarack and cedar interspersed
with deadwood, bracken, and thorny shrubs. To her left, the lake itself was
ringed by dead trees, their stumpy bare branches looped with garlands of
lichen. On the far side of the lake the river spread into the deep shadows of
the swamp, where the only real color came from the birds—yellow warblers
flitting like wayward sunbeams, a red cross bill sitting low in a black ash—and
from the luxurious carpet of deep green moss and ferns that covered everything.
The air shimmered with heat and flies.

"Here
it is, Treenie," Elizabeth said, wiping the black fly from the corners of
her eyes. "The worst of it."

She
forced herself to sit on the edge of the river. While she recited to herself
what Nathaniel had told her of the route, she ate, because she was hungry.
Ravenously hungry, so that the last of the oats, all of the dried meat, the
handful of beans disappeared in little time. This evening she would have to
take the time to fish, or to snare. But first there was the swamp to be got
around.

Keep your wits about you
,
Hawkeye had said to her so many weeks ago.
I've
still got my best stories to tell.

"I'll
have a few of my own," Elizabeth muttered. She wished for Hawkeye, for
Robbie, for Runs-from-Bears, even for her brother. Any way at all to be led.

"I'm
frightened," she said aloud.

The
dog looked up at her, panting, and then snapped irritably at the insects
hovering about her head. With an impatient snuffle, she started off. Elizabeth
followed.

* * *

Nathaniel
woke with a start and reached for her, remembering even then that she was gone,
off to fetch Robbie. Who would either dig his grave or cart him out of the
bush; what it would be was not quite clear. Breathing was a necessary misery.
Beyond that, he itched, and he was thirsty, and his bowels gripped.

"Breathe
deep," Richard Todd said from the other side of the fire. "You have
to force the bad lung open."

Nathaniel
blinked and attempted to focus on the man. The sweat had drawn crevices in the
grime on Richard's face, and his hair clung to his temples.

"You've
got a fever," he observed, his own voice sounding hollow and hoarse in his
ears.

"Leg's
full of muck," Richard said. "Need to clean it out."

"Sorry
I can't be of assistance."

Richard
managed a hollow laugh. "I'll wager."

Nathaniel
struggled up by holding on to the wall, and then hung there, coughing. No blood
this time; that was good. When his vision cleared again he made his way out of
the shelter and around the corner, where he squatted while the world around him
faded in and out of focus. What he wanted to do was to get down to the lake and
lie in the water, where it would be cool and he could listen to the loons. He
could wait for her there on the island where they had last come together .. .
yesterday? He shook his head, rubbing his eyes. The day before yesterday, in
the evening.